Industriously looking to end the single life and sharing stories along the way

Love

If despite your best efforts, how would you feel if it took over a year to get a single date? (You can fit quite a bit of rejection into one year, which is why I started this blog.) Now imagine trying to find that congenial life partner, aka “the one” to rule them all, if you only averaged a measly one date per year. Let’s say you’ve tried all the apps/sites and went to all the hip joints in your area but you came up empty (feel free to read about my failures #GirlFail). In consideration of those odds, would this change the way you live your pilgrimage as a love-laden individual? Ironically, most single-life blogs don’t narrate this story (#SerialDating) but it is mine and many others. While bemoaning myself into an assisted charcoal-burning suicide is a nonstarter, I did want to try and objectively explain my predicament since it’s more common than many think, especially for men.

(And in case you think it’s because I look like a troll or that I’m a slob – let me stop you there. Although I have no problem saying I’m average looking, I have my strong suits; e.g., physically fit, healthy eater, average height, and educated.)

Here’s a conversation I came across that perfectly depicts the disconnect I have set out to write about:

While both sides are correct, she (@FirstDatePurg) missed his (@DateTechnician) point completely. “Dating is work.” No doubt about this but how much work is being exerted on both sides and, on average, is it equal? And how different is it? (Not trying to single out @FirstDatePurg here, I’m sure she’s a great person and a hell of a catch. Also, @DateTechnician’s reference can be found here.)

To better explain myself, I’ll provide you with the exact antithesis of my situation, as I am confident it will be a tale you’re familiar with.

My friend Laura traveled abroad and painted the town red for the price of a venti iced skinny hazelnut macchiato with sugar-free syrup (#Starbucks). How? Well, on her second night, a chic man approached her on the street and asked her out dancing. With caution blowing in the wind, she accepted and journeyed with the stranger to a high-end club, got free entry, free drinks and free food. He was rich and well-connected with the local social elites and so, during her stay, she boogied at exclusive venues, debauched at luxurious homes, and eventually had sex with this attractive man on his stone balcony. And would you believe it? this story doesn’t end there.

After arriving back in NYC, she then captivated her peers with this enriching story, allured a wider audience via social networking sites with dreamlike photos no other tourist took and, in effect, bolstered her social status. Additionally, she’s able to use this sumptuous footage on dating sites/apps to easily attract more affluent and successful men in the city, and punch above her weight. You see, this experience doesn’t happily retire in a scrap book along with other distant memories but invariably gathers interest, allowing for larger investments in the near future.

Here’s my point: No universe exists where this even remotely resembles my life. In fact, all imaginary universes lack the temerity to grant even a slice of this pie based on – in Conway’s cowardly words – “alternative facts.”

A more impersonal way of conveying this is to say that there are disproportionate social opportunities that present themselves to some people, particularly women, and usually with little effort from the beneficiary. Additionally, when this is cited, one often hears a retort in the form of “you just have to have confidence,” or “you can do better” or “it’s less work for guys.” Jim Jefferies, shown below, provides an equally sleazy retort.

To be sure, this is a generalization and a half-truth. My intention is not to be divisive or rude in any way. The tone of my convictions are set to match those that truly believe it’s anyone’s game out there and if it’s easy for them, why not everyone else? Their existence immediately grants merit to this half-truth. (But feel free to argue with me 🙂 )

Why? First, as a society, we’re entering a new realm of romance with online dating spearheading the way – a modern romance, as some have called it. Second, it’s difficult to gauge just how much it’s impacting us. Granted, love will forever be an evolving hot topic and the example of Laura definitely isn’t everyone’s story but something of the sort happens every week, and I’d bet every day. As I’ve stated before, dating apps/sites in densely populated areas encourage two things:

Men to be lazy (which I’m guilty of)

Women to be picky (OKC and Tinder stats support this theory)

And as far as I can tell, both of these subversive traits will hinder everyone’s happiness. Consider the first point for a moment with regards to Tinder, which I can speak for. A guy’s odds of winning the Tinder lottery are absolutely pathetic. Dozens of studies report stats that back up our scanty luck; e.g., out of 250,000 swipes, a male subject was only matched with 532 of them. I’ll rephrase that: after swiping right to a quarter of a MILLION profiles, a guy only received 532 matches. The best part? The majority of the matches the male profile received came from other men. A quick calculation would show that if you’re a straight male, you would have a match rate of under 0.212%. By comparison, an average female had over 8,000 matches compared to just over 500 for men. Yet despite this, I still see men in public swiping on their mobiles instead of striking up conversations with others in public. How can we be so lazy? Has online dating justified shyness and reclusive behavior?

Furthermore, we seldom acknowledge why we’re acting the way we are. If you espouse to change or stand against the duplicitous role of Photoshop or the relentless bias towards actors and actresses with impeccable vanity in movie after movie, then I trust that you’d find it apropos to be mindful of how apps and the internet shape your interactions in the real world.

Ah, the real world of modern romance; where 1 out of 15 profiles feature a scandalous selfie of a girl squatting on a toilet (#FuckSocialNorms?). To be fair, men are equally as guilty with their photos and insipid descriptions about cheesy tacos but here’s the difference: the girl on the shitter is getting more dates than most men. Now her gag reflex may be as absent as her father figure but the fact that despite her foul lassitude, her odds of scoring a free meal with a local chap this weekend are vastly superior to mine should be contemptible.

I’m not saying that Ms. Support-Our-Poops should die alone but what irks me is that there is a Donald Trump level of loyalty towards these people – only instead of standing in the middle of 5th avenue and murdering somebody in cold blood (and not losing votes), it’s taking selfies while pinching off a big mud monkey in their WC. And this is all men’s fault. If photos like these were as readily available in the early 1990’s, Chuck Berry would never have put those video cameras in the ladies bathroom at his restaurant. So, why are men swiping right to this aberration?

Society has assigned passive and active roles for tasks based on gender for thousands of years. For example, men took an active role in providing for the family but a passive role in the actual care of the family (house maintenance, cooking, cleaning, etc.) and visa versa for women. This is something we gingerly internalized and while there are biological origins to these duties, that doesn’t make them intransigent, as you can see with my outdated example. For the most part, what continues to transpire today – what was regarded as the baby in the bathwater – is men actively seeking out and engaging with potential partners while women typically take a more passive approach, although this changes with older age. The main downside to this method is that objectified women are consequently subjected to much more unsolicited behavior; both good and bad, for better or worse, from both the richer and the poorer. Adhering to this, establishments are consistently insecure about their male-to-female ratio and, in an effort to satisfy this insecurity, will host a “ladies night” or ladies-get-in-for-free events. (Free entry and drinks for women every Saturday at Hudson Terrace and Monarch Rooftop. Tell your friends!)

These active/passive roles in our society are part of the reason why the superficial importance of appearance remains in the foreground. Getting dolled up is a side effect of assuming the passive role. Personally, I’d rather compliment your personality than your looks but alas, a ringing endorsement for the shoes she picked out is expected sometimes. (Side note, I can’t recall a single pair of shoes from any past relationship – they don’t fucking matter.) Truth is, calling someone beautiful isn’t much of an homage if you’re merely pointing out your appreciation for their genes, which they had no control over in the first place. Would you blush if someone complimented what hospital you were born in as well? No, but you recognize that beauty is vital to your passive role in the dating scheme. How many times do you hear “when will I finally find my perfect man?” In general, don’t they mean “when will the perfect man find me?” How many late night hosts introduce a guest in the following way: “We have the beautiful Jennifer Lawrence on the show tonight!” Why not “the talented Jennifer Lawrence”? She is talented as well, no? When asked why you chose your career path or hobby, how many women say they did it to meet men? I’ve lost count how many times the OPPOSITE is said; men becoming poets, actors, architects, musicians, authors, etc. solely to gain a competitive advantage and to hopefully – as Beavis and Butthead often wished – “finally score.”

There have been noble movements across the country opposing this but like most inexplicit parades, some look the part but don’t act it. Hipster fashion rejects flashy tight yoga pants for ripped blue wash jean shorts draped over black stockings; prescription contacts for your Dad’s first pair of oversized spectacles; a matching outfit for half a dozen conflicting cultural references you know nothing about. In my mind, the goal of some hipster trends is to appear as impractically unattractive and indolent as possible. If not their bib and tucker (#sarcasm), then overt objection to the generic à la shitter selfies. However, in some respect, this is the broad reply to unwanted, unsolicited behavior (e.g., dick pics and catcalling), which is the sad trade off.

And yes, it is disgusting how many derisive pigs there are. How hawkish their openers can be. How unlettered they are. How they have become tireless parodies of themselves collecting waste while others ignore their bullish tropes. Innumerable twitter accounts, vlogs, blogs, songs, and books are dedicated to these types of scum. This is low-hanging fruit but it’s easy to vent about.

As much press as irreverent openers get, this doesn’t add to one’s workload if you can still pull off a date with someone. Everyone should enter the world of dating with the mindset that at least 50% of men/women you’ll encounter will be shit. Tinder just helps to magnify this. Like I said before, men are generally more assertive out of necessity, so pigs flooding your inbox is sure to happen. The big downside to online dating is the ignorance on both sides. Unfortunately, many great guys waste away their chances by throwing around openers like “Hey, how are you?” or “We have a lot in common, want to chat?” because they don’t realize a women’s inbox is being filled up with competing messages and matches that are all subject to a vetting process. Who wouldn’t become desensitized to simplistic greetings or compliments? That is the center of the bull’s eye here. Neglect this at your own peril.

Yet, isn’t this the best time to be single? The ads for Match.com make loneliness out to be as fun as having herpes. I mean, you can find a date using nothing but the internet; a concept most people don’t even understand. Oh, and there’s finding someone in person; speed dating, singles mingles events, and the like. However, online dating has lost its sketchy stigma and the majority of Americans now say it’s a great way to meet someone. In fact, according to the Pew Research Center, usage of young adults have nearly tripled since 2013. A few years ago, I wrote about my OkCupid social experiment, which compared my real profile as a man to my fake profile as a woman.

How useful is OkCupid for men? Well, I visited over 600 profiles and sent about 450 messages over the course of six months. Out of those 450 messages, I only received 5 replies. Yup, that is 5 out of 450. That equates to about a 1.1% success rate, where success SOLELY means getting a reply. In order words, I wasted over 112 hours of my life. Here’s a tip: you have to be inured to rejection to continue. And clearly everyone wasn’t having the same rotten luck. It may sound crazy but I consider this to be a success story from a guy’s perspective.

The social repercussions for lazy bios and gag-provoking photos are unmistakably different and don’t favor men in this era of modern romance. Would you swipe right after reading the following bio?

Looking for someone to show me the city
(aka, they know nothing about the area)
I’m great at lying and I will only complicate you
(most likely crazy and selfish)
I don’t even use this stupid app anymore
(probably won’t respond to your message)

From what I gather, women are much more likely to reject this but as unappealing as it sounds, men are swiping right because why not? What difference does it make if you’re already struggling to find a date?

This isn’t to say women don’t struggle, but it is different and I’m not alone in saying that I would trade places in a heartbeat. Much like anything else, dating/socializing is a muscle to exercise and for many of us, we’re indulging in this numbers game because we’re reluctant to settle. Averaging 1-3 dates per year doesn’t give you enough practice in repartee, or time to polish your first impression, refine your best stories, or calm your nerves. This is where many of us part ways; I argue that 10 mediocre dates are superior to 1 great date. To put it another way, I’d rather sift through cringe-worthy openers, perverted invitations, poor dinner conversation, and a few free meals than spend another evening alone staring at an empty inbox or being turned down a dozen times in public. Love is hard; sex complicates everything, and it’s supposed to. This is why whenever I hear the type of hogwash that’s in this tweet…

…it tells me two things:

Nearly a thousand people agree with this written memento (facepalm)

Those that act this way aren’t putting in the hard work required in a true relationship

Most of us are looking for that someone to fulfill and complete us. And the more relationships, sex, dates, conversations, repartee, etc. the better your chances are at coming across the one who will requite the love you share. But consider this if you still believe I operate on a level playing field: literally every person I’ve ever been with has had at least twice as many lovers and dates (albeit not always relationships) than I have hitherto. The number of dates amassed within a couple of years for many dating blogs hosted by women would take me multiple lifetimes to accrue. And if they’re having trouble finding the one, what does that say for people like me?

Is this news? Not really. But if it is true that I’m intrinsically placed at a disadvantage and the game is slightly rigged against folks like me, then it’s also disadvantageous to act or think like so many of those who don’t share this struggle. As such, I’m proposing a sort of Single Life Manifesto in an effort to steer oneself unperturbed through the tempest of modern romance.

1) Vigorously disdain unctuous platitudes such as:

Everything comes to you at the right moment; be patient

There’s other fish in the sea

It’ll work out in the end, just be yourself

2) View online dating resources as simple means of finding others but not the ONLY means

5) Always be respectful and don’t be a scornful or sleazy asshole. That lot has been amply filled without the likes of you. Ask anyone

6) Better yourself every day for there will be times when you’re just not good enough (ever seen a shirt with “Strong women intimidate boys and excite men” on the front?)

“If she’s amazing, she won’t be easy. If she’s easy, she won’t be amazing. If she’s worth it, you wont give up. If you give up, you’re not worthy. … Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.” – Bob Marley

If you believe this mindset would breed a life of misery, contempt and pessimism, you are mistaken. On the contrary, it’s stoic and honest, which is useful during formidable times. And if you believe those, too, are overrated traits, here’s another platitude for you: nobody said life would be easy. That’s what true confidence looks like. And who the hell doesn’t want confidence in a lover?

“Expecting life to treat you well because you are a good person is like expecting an angry bull not to charge because you are a vegetarian.” – Shari R. Barr

A friend once comforted me by saying, “You know what your problem is SingleGuyInNYC?”

“What?”

“You just got to be yourself and let someone come to you.”

We sat in silence for a few seconds before laughing to tears. It was the best damn joke I’ve heard in a long while.

Before there was “Love Stinks” by J. Geils Band or Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used To Know“; before the British bemoaning of Bridget Jones’s Diary or the love-struck Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck or the conversational heartbreak in Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind, there was poetry. Oh yes, my friends. Poetry.

Love is a conundrum. Love can be a lesson learned; an all too common topic in culture that’s universally accepted as a calamitous milestone. One such poem that ventilates this tormenting lesson is by A. E. Housman

When I Was One-and-Twenty

When I was one-and-twenty

I heard a wise man say,

“Give crowns and pounds and guineas

But not your heart away;

Give pearls away and rubies

But keep your fancy free.”

But I was one-and-twenty,

No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty

I heard him say again,

“The heart out of the bosom

Was never given in vain;

’Tis paid with sighs a plenty

And sold for endless rue.”

And I am two-and-twenty,

And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

Summary:

Stanza 1: A wise man cautions to give away currency, or temporal possessions, but never your heart. That way way, one keeps their freedom, imagination, and open desire to do as one pleases. However, our insolent subject was 21 at the time and impervious to this advice.

Stanza 2: The wise man continues, purporting that giving your heart away is a zero-sum game. He is rather pessimistic about any such exchange and says that our subject would ultimately regret it and sulk in disappointment. And yet, notwithstanding this, our subject, now 22 years old, ignored what was said and has come to know first hand that the sage was, in fact, right.

Perhaps this was because our subject finally reached the drinking age. (I’ll leave that for you to ponder.) Whatever your assessment, and despite the bleak tone of the poem, not everyone is entitled to a fair trial here. Some will be lucky; some will get lucky. And visa versa.

This truly is the story as old as time. It is NOT what the Walt Disney Co. encourages us to impetuously ingest. Push that chalice aside, however tempting, and experience what is right in front of you. It is an inspiring, albeit agitating, conundrum. Rainer Marie Rilke put it best.

“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” – Rainer Rilke

A wise poet once defined love as two solitudes that meet, protect and greet each other. Although I don’t expect this to be a revealing statement, notice how “solitude” is the subject – the polar opposite of partnership.

This is my story of such a love.

Our first date was simple; Sunday lunch and a walk on the High Line (a public park built on an elevated freight rail line). There wasn’t a stream of silence lasting more than 30 seconds the entire time we were together. Her voice was gentle and silvery but words will always – as expected – fall short of the ineffable. Something about her timbre was soothing. Her face was also gentle, a little glossy and perfectly aged to 29. No makeup. A little fat to her cheeks with a light skinned mole on her right side. Her smokey brown eyes were comforting. Her wavy hair, stretching down a few inches past her bony shoulders, reflected a similar shade of brown. It was slightly frizzy but compellingly natural. No bangs. She made few attempts to conceal her age. Her hands were perfection; nails weren’t chewed but grown out a few millimeters past her digits, the sort of hands that give the impression of prescient dexterity despite knowing nothing of their history.

She was older, which probably meant she was taking a chance on me, a writer and a Yale graduate. I anticipated her intelligence but her wittiness and sense of humor was bewitching. (Not to sound sexist but from my experience, most women excel in replenishing flirtatious banter but not in the instigation. She was assertive and could craft a great joke.) Her analytical mind and serene temperament matched my own but luckily we were able to break that wall from time to time with an invigorating story, like the one about the Muffin Man.

No, not the one who lives on Mulberry Lane but of Samuel Bath Thomas; creator of Thomas English Muffins.

“He actually moved to the city, right around here, about a century ago,” I explained.

“There was a serial killer in Alaska named the Muffin Man. Is it bad that I thought you were talking about that?”

“Are you serious? Now I’m imagining him outlining bodies with blueberry muffins – you know, instead of a chalk outline.”

“Think of all the wasted muffins. And who wanders around with a box of muffin mix and a cleaver?” she added with a smirk. “What if Thomas English Muffins is just a cover up?!? You better call Alaskan police.”

“Holy shit, we just cracked this case wide open!”

This repartee actually continued for several minutes and became hysterically detailed but you get the drift. The first date was a success, so we made plans for a second.

Plan: An evening of bowling

Problem: She was busy every evening

Solution: Bowl at 10am on a weekday after a couple of waffles from a local diner

Unable to tell her I, too, was busy, and afraid of losing a second date, I called my boss and took off work in order to bowl on a brisk November Monday morning. Despite not having many vacation days, this made me look adventurous and a tad bit silly (hopefully).

“When one is in love, one always begins by deceiving one’s self, and one always ends by deceiving others. That is what the world calls a romance.” – Oscar Wilde

Breakfast was first. Conversation came easy and topics ranged from Lethal Weapon to Lady Gaga to Zen Buddhism to friendships to philosophy to roommates to writing to meditation to cooking and on and on. One topic would branch into a dozen separate tangents that we both had countless thoughts on. Never in my life have I been able to engage with someone on some many levels. She wasn’t an acquaintance I’m seeing for the second time, she was an old companion. Least, that’s what it felt like.

Do you know those self-adhering paper napkin bands that are wrapped around silverware?

Well, a playful thing I like to do is to make paper airplanes out of them to throw at my dates. What I didn’t expect was that she retaliated with a paper stealth bomber. In actuality, she made a paper frog that you could bounce but it looked more like a aircraft to me. She had an equal or greater response to everything, as if she was returning the favor in an attempt to woo me as well. Boredom was not in the cards that morning, or any morning as long as it was with her.

Bowling was second and we had the entire alley to ourselves for our first game.

Where have the women like this been all my life? You see, I’m analytical and skeptical. Which means I inexorably scrutinize the world around me. On top of this, I obsess over philosophy and the nature of the mind, which none of my friends do, or if they do, I lead the conversation. This was the first time where I was well matched, so to speak, and could freely express my ideas without being misunderstood. I was a prisoner of solitude finally being let out. It tickled my brain and electrified my body to connect in this way, if only I could contain that ecstasy in a jar for future use.

After my fifth gutter, it became clear how many ersatz relationships I’ve had; that is, cheap imitations of this. Humility in intelligence is sexy. So, if she had something to say, I wanted to listen. My tenpins game is amateurish at best but it grew worse because I kept my attention on what my next joke or thought would be. Pulling it together, I managed a spare.

“Woah!” she cheered. “These graphics are ridiculous.”

She was referring to the cheap animation on the TVs overhead. One such graphic was a silhouette of a woman (like in the opening credits of James Bond).

“Some Asian lady wearing jeans comes up when you bowl a spare!” she observed.

“It’s a silhouette. How can you TELL she’s Asian? Let along an Asian wearing jeans?”

“She’s got chopsticks in her hair!”

“Oh yeah? And what brand jeans? Levi’s?”

“Sounds about right.”

This went on for a while until we were both laughing with exhaustion. There may have been tears.

After dominating the first game, she suggested that for the next round, whoever wins the frame gets to ask the other person a question. Challenge accepted! And challenge lost.

She won all but a couple of frames and consequently, asked me quite a lot of questions. What were you like with girls in High School? What do you do for Thanksgiving? How does your brain work? How do you form thoughts? What are your guilty pleasures? How private of a person are you?

Be honest, dear reader, how many dates have you been on where someone asks how your brain works? This was by far my favorite query and I knew exactly how to answer. I connected my response to a few heroes of mine, one of them being Bertrand Russell.

“I wish I could write about philosophy the way Russell did,” she commented.

At that moment, I wanted to throw my arms around her and kiss her. Not because good ol’ Russell turns me on but because I finally met someone who feels the same way about his writing and how pragmatically beautiful it is. But alas, I had to keep my composure and not melt at her feet.

Prior to leaving the alley, we discussed what to do for our third date. Needless to say, we felt satisfied while making our way to an uptown R train.

After feeling the jolt of the train car at her stop, we kissed and she got off. Staying put, I watched her take a right out the doors and begin walking away. Just before escaping my line of vision, she turned around smiling, and waved to me. In that moment, I was the king of the world. I was so content that afternoon that I missed my stop.

That was the last time I saw her. A few hours later, we had the following conversation:

Scanning that first text, I was crassly catapulted from my “date high” and slammed into my seat. Without any gain, I felt 100 pounds heavier. Good grief. And while I will never know if she was telling her entire side of the story, I was slighted by her insinuation that I don’t fall into the “touchy-feely/artsy-fartsy” category. The irony in that sentence may very well spark an identity crisis within me.

And yet, I’m not here to object her underpinnings. All pithy rhetoric aside, everyone uses the first couple dates to suss out how romantic they are willing to get with someone. You’re unknowingly asking yourself: Is this the guy I want to give birthday blowjobs to? Is this the woman I want to thrust into on the kitchen floor or in the shower, when the roommies are gone?

To me, she was providential. To her, I was a decent guy to play tenpins with.

Here’s the best part, even her rejection text is FAR superior compared to the countless I’ve received. Most people would have remorselessly ignored my follow ups.

Any silver lining? Sure. A few months ago, I wrote a post entitled She Makes Me Wanna Die (Girl Fail #21) about an ex that – up until now – I considered to be the love of my life. For years, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever find a connection truly worth keeping until now. Just knowing that I can feel this way again is a victory.

But the truth is unsettling all the while. I keep telling myself you will forget her silvery voice; her gentle face; her smokey brown eyes; her wavy hair; her perfect hands. After all, much of her body will remain undisclosed and a complete mystery to me.

If I bumped into her on the street, I’d want to tell her that she’d been on my mind every single day since we met. How every idle moment seems to effortlessly, albeit not painlessly, default to an affectionate thought of her. Of course, I could never confess this. Ironically, that’s no way to treat a lady.

{If by some astronomical chance YOU (the subject of my post; you who dreams of being James Bond) ever read this, I hope it finds you in good spirits. You never need doubt your ability to create a spark in someone else. P.S. I hope I made you smile at least once here.}

If you’re concerned about building romantic chemistry with someone, here’s a tip: FIGHT. A more poetic phrasing would be to say that light only comes from heat. (Perhaps you’re familiar with Heracleitus’ criticism of Homer’s pacifism.) Every conversation is performance art; think of it like composing music. Most memorable pieces underscore the fine line between tension and release; pain and pleasure; suspense and idyll. Harmless disputation charges adrenaline glands and endorphin levels, augmenting your appeal. To be sure, I’m not advising you to go all Donald Trump 2016 on them but if your conversation has been nothing but agreeable and innocent, you’ve only proven one thing and one measly thing only; that you’re safe. No one wants “safe” on the first few dates. “Safe” pays the bills and picks up the kids from soccer practice, sure, but are you there yet? Hopefully not. Instead, everyone wants to ride the bull before they let it graze their pasture. So, how do you instigate a little dissonance?

Say you’re at a diner and they order apple pie to go with their afternoon coffee. Now, sweet apple pie may be your favorite dessert in all existence. In fact, your Aunt Edna (bless her heart) may have expounded to you the delicacies of picking the freshest apples from the lush orchards of upstate New York, constructing the perfect crust, and sharing with you her secret weapon that sets her recipe apart (lemon zest?). You may, at first, want to unleash, as if in dissertation form, all these warm memories of loving apple pie as a kid. Or how your Aunt Edna (bless her heart, again) was the best pie maker in all the world and how your date would have savored every bite of her pie and how you would love to show her the recipe yourself one day so that Aunt Edna’s memory could live on through her perfected palate.

But no, not today.

Today, you fucking hate that vile shit. In fact, how could they even order such a ghastly dish to ruin their coffee on such a sunny day? You were actually having a pleasant date until THEY had to invidiously bankrupt it. Can you believe their insolvency? This is their response to your comportment? Jesus! Have they no common decency to themselves or – at the very least – human courtesy to YOU?!?!?

No, today you will disgrace that apple pie in front of the very makers whom labored tirelessly over it, hoping to serve it to an abject customer until your dying breath. Then, and only then, will your date engulf their overpriced pie. But even in that seemingly “safe” moment, they will think of your mortified self. Oh yes, yes they will.

And that is why they’ll text you back the next day. And that is why you’ll get another date.

4) We can be emotionally unavailable. Not to say we’re autistic or sociopathic but some men believe themselves to be (or pride themselves in being) impervious to the emotional. Tacit norms label the full gamut of emotions as taboo and in order to heed your duties of manhood, we shelter tears lest we be held accountable for them and written off as a girl or homosexual. Stemming from older generations where this was more rife, we are our father’s sons. (A close friend of mine still prides himself in having never cried. His wife attests to it too.) Stoicism, rather than perfunctory introspection, is widely understood as a masculine trait and until we divorce these characteristics from one another, men will continue to displace their sentience erratically, using women as punching bags, even if just verbally. To be sure, empathy is a muscle that MUST be exercised, so I encourage you to question yourself and challenge this archetype.

3) Beauty’s pedestal: This goes for both sexes but I believe men are more culpable. The point being, we award too much to appearances and allow it to influence our perception of others. “Have you met Karen? She works in Marketing. She’s so hot.” “Damn, I’ll definitely have to meet her then!” And when you do, her jokes are funnier; thoughts are perfectly insightful; ideas are intrinsically novel; touch is more enchanting; requests are registered as tests of affection. However, maybe there’s more to Karen than her tight ass. (Or, maybe not – I don’t know, I just made her up.) Will I ever grow up out of this insatiable, often times incorrigible, POV? While I’m unable to dissociate myself from my neurological makeup, and my sensitivity to visual stimuli, I try not to remain spellbound by beauty and break free from this Mortal Kombat “FINNISH HIM” daze whenever I can. After all, we are not identical to our thoughts, emotions or desires.

2) Catcalling or street harassment is unwanted comments – most often, sexual or objectifying – made by strangers in public spaces. While this is commonly tied to urban areas, make no mistake; this is a global issue with contemptuous consequences. According to a Washington Post article published in June of 2014, the nonprofit organization Stop Street Harassment released their findings in the first national study on catcalling. This bar graph notates the percentages of public harassment in America by gender. Compared to similar polls conducted (for instance, from another anti-harassment organization, Hollaback!), this graph’s estimates may be conservative. You may remember the #NoWomanEver campaign on Twitter, followed by the less meaningful #NoManEver trend, or the Hollaback! video 10 Hours of Walking in NYC as a Woman, or Jessica Williams’ version of it from the Daily Show. The purpose of these pieces is to raise awareness to incredulous men by providing proof of what so many don’t experience or see. It’s worth noting that shameless men that catcall women are also jerkoffs to other men but in less of a lecherous manner.

1) According to a 2010 CDC report, approximately 1 in 6 women are victims of abuse (compared to 1 in 71 men). It’s no secret that unconscionable men embodying much of these 13 Reasons Why Men Suck are the initial perpetrators but it doesn’t end there. How those in the media, criminal justice system, and state legislature deal with victims, and the alleged, is just as relevant. How many spotlight cases from this year alone can you think of? Brock Turner and all the victims of Bill Clinton and Donald Trump probably come to mind. Whether every story is true, I don’t know. What is imperative here is that we don’t shun those who do speak out. (Most instances of abuse aren’t officially reported.) Ironically, we can do this while remaining slightly skeptical in cases mired in political leverage, as seen with this past election. Only with a safe space in which these victims can tell their stories can they finally have a chance at proper justice and vindication.

Let’s get right to it, shall we? Here’s the next batch of self-sexist flaws:

8) Sexual development. Statistically speaking, this can be understood as one of the causes of #9 (misunderstanding women). According to a study published by the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexualityon gender differences, males are not only more prone to masturbation – which remains consistent throughout their lifetimes – but their first sexual experience generally comes from themselves, whereas most females, initially feel sexual pleasure with another person. Consequently, sexual gratification for men – not to mention a plethora of orgasms – precedes any relationship, which renders a diminished cash value in partnership for some young adult men. To be sure, this is a physiological force to be reckoned with. On average, men’s sex drive peaks before 20 years of age, while a women’s will peak between the ages of 30 and 40. The silver lining for my lascivious gender is not having to deal with unwanted and completely unwarranted erections every 15 minutes anymore. How many erections must a teenage boy deal with at a bloody funeral? This is madness!

7) “Be a man!” Ah, the classic fear of being emasculated. Due to our own personal socialization and rigid societal norms, droves of men from countless generations have suppressed childhood trauma or adulthood shortcomings with substances and/or physical activity. Since when did boxing, as opposed to therapy, become the appropriate outlet for emotional distress stemming from an unloving parent? For one thing, the gratification from boxing is – by comparison – immediately felt. There’s quite a lot one can learn from the sport and from themselves but we have a grand tendency to square our vices in indirect ways. This categorical pressure is put on from everyone, which makes it all the more ironic when heterosexual males are emasculated by their female counterparts for not falling into their stereotyped gender roles. We as a society engineered these gender roles and the circumstances of their failure to satisfy our basic human integrity. (This, too, is madness.) Ask yourself, who was more of a manly figure in Fight Club; Pitt or Norton? Quod erat demonstrandum.

6) Having game. How skilled are you at repartee and picking up women? How many partners have you had? Do you fully satisfy her yet leave her begging for more? The desire for flattering reputations that precedes you when it comes to attracting partners is undeniable in countless social circles. Consider this, my entire blog is based on my failure to get a single date. I’m not talking about trouble finding “the one” or a “good” girl or attending bad Tinder dates – on the contrary, this makes up for 90% of all single/dating blogs authored by women (just an observation here). Therefore, it should come as no surprise that any man known for “having game” is revered and exhorted. Otherwise, Jack Nicholson wouldn’t be so infamous for his off-screen self-indulgences.

5) Sports. This kindling is ubiquitously favored for male-to-male relations. It appears as profitable water cooler banter. It’s the fast food lettuce; the degree-lacking weatherman; the cheap champagne in your mimosa; the holiday regift. It’s a instant IN for most men, by far the easiest way to make friends, and if you’re not familiar, prepare for bite-sized abandonment and cold stares from your male acquaintances. If they can’t talk to you about Tom Brady, what can they talk to you about? Literally anything else? That might be too much to handle.

Excuse the sleazy title but I’d like to offer some counterweight to the common tone of my narrative and provide a list of male shortcomings. There will be “basket of deplorables” level generalizations but I trust you’ve come prepared with a grain of salt and an internal laugh track waiting to be cued.

In reverse order:

13) Female orgasm is superior. Depending on whom you ask and how they classify their O moments, there are anywhere between 3 and 11 different types of female orgasms. Not only that but – on average – men have shorter orgasms (5-22 seconds) compared to their female counterparts (~20 seconds). And while I’ve been the cause of many, the aftereffects never cease to amaze me. The first time I heard “Holy shit, I can’t even move right now” after a long session, I asked her if I should call an ambulance. And I was serious.

12) Suck at staying in touch. Some men don’t buy into the whole “brotherly love” culture and unless you’re sharing some activity with your boys (e.g., baseball league), you’ll inadvertently lose touch with those once close to you. In short, we often disservice ourselves and our relationships.

11) Stupid immaturity. Often disguised as boyish and endearing, our silliness can get us into trouble as an adult. My cryptic password at work used to be BigTittedBJs69. (I was in one of my sarcastic moods.) It wasn’t a problem until I got locked out of my desktop and had to forward ISD my access credentials so they could unlock my account. “I’m sorry, was that Big Titted Bee Jays Seventy-nine? Oh, I see. It’s sixty-nine. Gotcha.” #LessonLearned

10) Moreover, we squander our time. Whether it was Wilde or Shaw that came up with “Youth is wasted on the young,” it comes as no surprise that this tidbit was uttered by a male. Sometimes it’s the unwillingness to advance to the next step in a relationship, other times it’s becoming complacent with regular sex, or perhaps it’s overstaying your welcome at a job where you enter blowjob-related passwords everyday. Some of us aren’t future-oriented and we’re the worse for it.

9) Misunderstanding people; women in particular. Although not everyone is easy to read, most sensible humans exhibit repetitive patterns. Patterns can be elucidated and used to predict tones of behavior. It’s with this that I hope we can extirpate idiotic gibes like “What are you, on your period?” Or “You should lose some weight” and so on. This goes further than uttering dumb shit; it’s the injustice of not bothering to understand those around you.